An Impossible Choice
by horseyyay AKA Morgoth
Summary: A soldier finds a wounded Haradrim on the Pelennor fields and is faced with a impossible decision. Will he choose whether his enemy lives or dies, and can he face the consequences?
**A/N My winning Teitho entry for the March theme Life and Death :) please enjoy and feel free to leave a review below :) as always concrit is appreciated :)**

We search the battlefield for the wounded, for those who can still be saved. It is a momentous task, and one that will take us many days. And in that time some who may have lived will die. Die from cold, hunger, thirst, blood loss. Die from something that could be so easily prevented if it were not for the sheer bulk of enemy dead, the lack of those still able-bodied enough to carry the wounded, of room in the Houses of Healing. The dead and the dying far outnumber the living; those able to dig through the corpses, to carry the wounded across the plain back to the broken city.

Each morning I rise, wishing for the nightmare to end, craving one day, just one day to wander through the tatters of people's lives, to mourn those who were lost. One day where I do not have to comb through the corpses of friends and comrades, from dawn until dusk. One day away from the swirling maelstrom of memories, of pain and fear.

I sometimes think the wounded are the lucky ones, for they do not have to relive this hell day after day. They do not have the temptation of freedom, of just riding home to Rohan. I cannot pretend my home is unravaged by war, but it has not been destroyed by it. Not like this. There are still places untouched, untainted, where the grass still waves in the wind on the rolling plains, where the wild herds still run. The longing, the call of home reverberates in every fibre of my being. I long to heed it, to return to my small cottage on the plains, to the fire crackling in the hearth, to my wife, to my children.

I suppress the memories that bubble to the surface. The violence that I do not want to face. I can't return yet. The war is not yet won, and we will follow Gondor's new king to the very heart of Mordor to end it. Even now, as the sun rises on a new day, he will be in the Houses of Healing. He rarely leaves, utterly devoted to saving every last man, woman and child. And so he wins the hearts and loyalty of all, and we will follow him to death or glory.

 _G_ lory. I mentally scoff as I step between the crushed remains of Minas Tirith's great gates. What use is glory. There was glory in the Battle of the Pelennor fields, glory as we charged, cutting through the ranks of the orcs like a hot knife through butter. But as it always does, glory fled, leaving only death behind. Death for us came in the shape of Haradrim mounted on Mumakil, their footsteps like thunder, the ground shaking with every impact. And so we died, and so they died in the killing.

Even now I wonder how many of them wanted this war, how many lay on that field, forced into battle by our ancestor's decisions, to fight a war against people they never knew, for a cause they did not wholly believe in. How many young men marched to war because they had always hated Gondor, because their fathers hated Gondor, because they have never known any different, never known or dreamt of the possibility of peace.

I find that this morning my feet have led me once again into the killing grounds, where the majority of my comrades were slain. I idly wonder why, why I constantly return here, to the one place which hurts me the most. The place where the slain Mumakil tower into the dawn like great mountains, horses and humans little more than ants at their feet. I weave in between the great mounds of the slain monsters, searching for a flash of a Rohirric cloak, the fluttering breaths of one still alive.

I walk beneath the splintered remains of a Mumakil war harness, the bodies of those who once rode in it twisted in death. I tread through them, searching, my eyes drifting over my enemies. I do not search for life in them. Instead I softly step around the bodies, careful not to disrespect the dead. I do not seek vengeance against those who have already paid the ultimate price. They are gone, and they care not for the worries and passions of the living.

I barely notice the trailing fingers grasping at my ankle. "Please," A hoarse voice shudders, accented, mangling the unfamiliar word.

For a moment I do nothing, frozen, afraid of what I might see. A scarred face twisted in hate, a poisoned dagger racing up to meet me in a final act of revenge as the Haradrim's life seeps into the dirt. That moment of stillness destroys any chance of brushing off the touch, as if I had not felt it, and the hoarse voice of the enemy rasps again, in a different tongue, his mother tongue. I know that I should keep walking, keep moving, never look back. This is no soldier of Gondor or Rohan, he is not who I am searching for. Was searching for. I remember with a jolt, a fresh wave of grief.

But I cannot.

A curiosity, a desire fills me and so slowly I turn, dreading what I may see, yet desperate to know. Desperate to see my enemy in pain and suffering, hoping they are not. I steel myself for the sight of the alien features of some shaman, or warrior. Waiting for eyes filled with burning hate to meet mine.

And then I see him; and the sight of my enemy shakes me to my core.

My enemy is no grizzled soldier caked in warpaint, no scarred commander. No, he is young. Just a young boy. No, not a boy, I realise with a jolt. No one could survive that battle and still be a boy. He is a man now, whether he knows it or not.

His face however, is still rounded with youth, and twisted with pain, haunted eyes pleading, begging for help. And how can I deny him, for he is no older than my own son. My own child who I could not stop from from joining me in this war. My own child who I carried across the plain… No. I force the thoughts away, back to the young man who could so easily have been my son.

But he is not your son. And he is not of Rohan or Gondor. He is of Harad; and he is your enemy. My enemy. Even as I think it I ridicule the thought. How can this boy be my enemy? Seeing him lying here it is hard to believe that only two days ago he was marching and fighting and killing.

Killing my comrades. This boy played a part in the death of some of my closest friends, the death of my king. Perhaps he was even the one to fire the arrow into my son's side, or slice a sword across his ribs. Anger begins to harden my heart. He would not help me, or my son. So why should I help him?

But even as I look once again into those eyes the anger drains away. This boy is only one man. One young boy who likely had little battle skill or training. He was not responsible for the Mumakil, who mowed down horses and men alike with their tusks. He was no shaman, who tamed, trained and controlled the great beasts. He was just a soldier, a dog's body. I cannot blame him for the death of my friends and my family..

Yet I find I do. I do blame him. I need someone to blame. Someone to hurt, to punish, to mask the pain inside. To cover-up the guilt I feel for being one of those who survived. The guilt of returning home knowing that I failed.. And even if I didn't, how can I take him to Minas Tirith, take him to the Halls of Healing and ask for someone to help? None would heed my call. They would let him die. Harad has been the enemy of Gondor for too many years.

I find myself torn between my head and my heart. How can I leave this boy to die, out here, cold and alone? But how can I save him? How can I make that choice, how can I be the one to decide his fate.

Maybe I can't save him. But I should try. I have to try.

But my muscles refuse to obey, my knees refuse to bend, my arms refuse to stretch out. All I can see is the faceless Haradrim on top of their Mumakil, firing arrows into our midst. I shake the memories away. I should save him. I tell myself over and over and over. But I can't make myself do it. I can't make myself bend down and pick the young man up, like I have picked up so many others to carry them across the plain.

Horror and anger fill my heart as I just stare into his pleading eyes, until, finally, my own eyes filling with tears of frustration at my inability, my selfish racism, I turn away.

I close my ears to his quiet pleas as I leave him to die, filled with shame and self-loathing as a small vindictive part of me crows in triumph at the suffering of my enemy, the touch of his fingers on my ankle burnt into my skin.

I can't forget about that boy. Every man I have carried today has his eyes, or his face, staring accusingly into my soul. Guilt eats away at me as the carts of the makeshift gates roll into place, bumping against each other with a quiet crack. My feet follow the same path they have taken every night to where we Rohirrim are garrisoned, and I see him standing in every doorway, blood leaking through the fingers clutched to his side. I shake my head violently, trying to dislodge him, but he is always there, around every corner and from every shadow I hear his quiet pleas.

I stumble into our makeshift dining hall, into the light and noise of fifty men enjoying their meal after a day of back-breaking work, and finally I am free. I do not see him hiding in the corners, leaping out of the shadows. His pleas are drowned by raucous banter.

For the first time that day, a smile teases the corner of my lips and I stride across the room to where what is left of the food lies cooling.

I stare at my meagre meal, thrown together from what little supplies were left from the journey from Rohan, and what was not destroyed when the orcs sacked the city. My spoon hovers over the half-filled bowl with the wrinkled apple beside it. And all I can think about is a Haradrim boy that I left to die.

I do not see the concerned looks my fellows give me, or feel the silent hands of solidarity on my shoulder. They just assume that I found another close friend dead today, and leave me to my mourning.

Mourning. The mourning here hasn't been like normal. Normally we would drink to our fallen comrades memories. Drink and laugh and dance about our victory. But there is no ale left, no music or song or dance. There is no spirit left to celebrate our lives, our friends' lives. This is not mourning, or victory. This is just defeat. Only in defeat would we sit in silence, and recover our dead and wounded in despair.

How do the Haradrim mourn? Somewhere deep in my mind the thought registers. I wonder if the young Haradrim has a mother, or a father still alive to mourn him. Would they celebrate his memory, or will they weep in despair, howl at their gods, begging for the return of their son. Or will they cling onto the hope that he is still alive, somewhere, trying to make his way home. Or are they dead, slain when Sauron claimed his troops. Does he even have a home or a family to live for, to return to? Perhaps it would be better if he joined them in death. Better for everyone. I cling to that thought, that vague rationalisation, some sort of argument in favour of my actions. Yet I know that it is a lie. There was no wish to die in that young man's eyes.

My appetite has vanished, my stomach once more sick with self-disgust. So I abandon my food and slink to bed, keeping my eyes fixated on the ground where I am placing my feet, humming a child's nursery rhyme to close my ears to phantom cries for help.

What nursery rhymes do Haradrim women sing to their children? The thought pops unbidden to the forefront of my mind and I want to scream in anger. Why can't I just forget! Why do I care so much!? But I cannot help myself wondering. Do they tell similar tales of the past, similar stories warning young children away from dangerous places? Do they sing, or do they tell the story as if read from a book. Do they paint, engrave, carve, or write their tales down; or are they passed from one mind to another, changing a little each generation.

I silently slip down rows of sleeping men to where my bedroll lies, waiting for me. I want nothing more than to lie down, close my eyes and just forget about everything. But I cannot sleep. For every time I close my eyes I see the dark, haunted orbs of a Haradrim boy, no older than my own son. I hear his desperate pleas as I walk away.

I turn over, hugging the thin blankets closer to my body as if they can ward away the images. The worn blankets are now of little effect for keeping me warm and equally unsuccessful at getting rid of my night terrors. But it is better than lying on a cold plain, bleeding. My mind seems intent on guilt tripping me.

Save him. I do not need the prompt, and I desperately struggle to ignore it.

You did not leave your own son. My thoughts are now accusing. Even though you knew- I push the thought down, burying it. But he is not my son! I cry into the night, into the chaos of my mind.

No. But he is someone's son. He has a mother, and a father and probably brothers and sisters who are all waiting for him to return. And you can save him. Return him to them, like you would want your son returned. I futilely try to change the subject, trying to think of anything, anything but him.

But I cannot. The guilt is too strong. The guilt at leaving someone to die who I could so easily help live.

I slip from my bedroll, hardly believing what I intend to do. In a daze, I softly pad down the streets in the shadows, barely noticing his semblance standing there, eyes still begging for help. As I draw closer to the gates, descending the many levels of the city, my strides become faster and faster, my heart beginning to race.

What if I am too late. What if I fail again. The guards, sleep clouding their eyes, watch with curiosity as I reach the carts and pallets, frantically grasping at the wood. When they realise my intention they rise to help, pushing me back and opening a small gap in the makeshift gate with ease.

I dart through, before the opportunity is lost, before I am forced to return to my guilt-ridden hell. They watch with pity in their faces. They have seen many like me stumble onto the plains in the dark, unable to rest until they have found who they are searching for.

The difference is that I know where the one I am searching for is. It seems to take me an age to find him again in the looming maze of horse and Mumakil. But finally the splintered war harness towers above me again and there he is, lying still, lifeless. My heart drops to my stomach and I fall to my knees, searching for a neck, a wrist, a pulse.

I find it. Fluttering, small, but there. I close my eyes in relief and press my hand against that wrist, that tiny spark of life. I haven't failed. I can still redeem myself.

My earlier inhibitions gone I reach out and gather the boy into my arms. He is light, like a bird. All gangly arms and legs, all bone and no muscle. I stare into his face, so evidently Haradrim and again wonder if I am just leading him towards another death at the hands of those who hate him. How was I even to get him into the city. His armour could not be mistaken for that of Rohan or Gondor.

Disguise him. The thought pops into my mind and I gently return him to the floor, springing to my feet, casting around for the nearest dead comrade. It does not take long to find one and I remove their cloak and armour, muttering apologies as I do so. It is for a good cause, and they no longer need it.

I do the same with his ill-fitting, bloodstained armour, made for someone much taller, and replace it with the green of my kin. I draw the hood over his face, satisfied that in the dark, no one will notice.

As I lift him again I catch a slight movement of the eyelids, a quiet groan, and hope fills me, refusing to believe that I may have imagined it. I turn towards Minas Tirith shining in the moonlight and smile, striding towards her.

Yet my joy is tainted. I can't help but notice how cold the boy is, how still he seems. My stride grows faster and longer, and I am filled with a strange energy, a selfish desire to make him live. Not for him, but for me. Because if he lives, then I may no longer want to die.

I knock on the cart when I reach the gates and after a few moments I hear the guards muttering in annoyance, and then the creaking as the carts are rolled apart. I see it in their faces as they peer round to see who bothers them, they did not expect me to return, not successful.

They smile and murmur congratulations, words of encouragement which are lost in my wake as I head towards the Halls of Healing.

But the closer I get, the more doubt fills my mind. I have got him in here now, but what if none will help him. What if all of this has been for naught? What if I have brought him here, only for him to die. Panic begins to fill my heart. I can't, I can't sit and watch him die. I can't go through that again.

"Another one? It is late to be out searching for the wounded." A soft voice cuts through my panic and my eyes focus on their source in the dark. It is him. The King.

Aragorn felt a small surge of disappointment as the soldier stared at him with desperation in his eyes, the man in his arms evidently needing immediate attention. He had been hoping for a small break, a chance to sleep for once, a bath. But he recognised this man, from somewhere, not from bringing the wounded. The collectors usually left them at the gates where carts carried them up through the city.

"P- Please help. I- I can't. I- can't..." The man could barely speak as tears rolled down his cheeks, his breath coming in shuddering gasps.

"Shhh. It will be fine." Sympathy blossomed in Aragorn's heart and he turned back towards the Halls, beckoning for the man to follow. He would find a spot for the wounded; pallets were often being vacated, sometimes by those who were well enough to leave, more often by those who did not.

He strode into the hall, looking around for a place, spotting a pallet in the corner. It would do, if the wounded was small. Aragorn turned to study him closer, and saw the soldier falter at the door, eyes glazed, legs shaking.

He looked as if he was going to pass out and Aragorn took the wounded man from his arms before he could fall. He could not help but notice how small the wounded was. This was no man, but a boy. He reached out a hand to push back the hood, to see the face, to judge how old he was to see what innocent victim this war had created.

"No…" The soldier's protest was too soft and too late. The hood fell and Aragorn took the features in in a moment, casting a sharp look at the soldier in shock.

"I can't let him just die. I can't watch… not- not again." It was that fear, that plea for help that cause Aragorn to realise why he recognised the soldier. He had sat in the Halls and watched his son, the same age as this boy and the last of his family, die. He had been on the edge of death when the soldier had stumbled in the first time, the same desperate panic in his eyes. It had been obvious from the beginning that there was nothing they could do, that the boy's life would only drain away to nothingness, but the soldier had clung on to the hope that he would live, and was broken when he did not.

And now he was here once again. But this time the child was not his own, and a Haradrim no less.

Yet Aragorn could not bring himself to turn them away, for it would kill the man, and a paternal sympathy bloomed in his heart when he looked down at the young boy's face, twisted in pain. This was only a child, undeserving of death. And if he had survived for this long untended on a battlefield there was a chance he would live to see another day.

He laid the boy down on the pallet which had already been freshly made for its next occupant, thankful it was in a dark corner. He could tell the other healers to ignore the boy, that he was his patient alone. They would welcome the idea and ask no questions for it was one less responsibility for them.

Aragorn shook his head softly as he placed a chair for the soldier next to the pallet and hurried to find athelas, bandages and water before he investigated the damage, hardly believing what he was doing, sneaking around in the dead of night saving a Haradrim soldier. Even if he was only twelve.

My panic dies down, being replaced with the same numbing helplessness that I felt the last time I set foot in this room. That feeling of utter inadequacy, of uselessness. I can only watch as the King rushes round, gathering supplies, inspecting the wound, making up remedies. And all with a concerned expression, a confused one, as if he does not know why he is helping me, helping this young enemy.

It brings back a strong feeling of de ja vu. It was not the King last time, but the motions where the same and the Haradrim boy morphs into my own son. My own son who I would never see laugh, or cry. Who would never climb a tree just to see how high he could jump from and not hurt himself again.

I'll take responsibility for him. Take him… home." I croak out, not knowing what I was going to say before I said it. It just seemed so obvious. I had brought him here, and now I had to look after him, raise him as my own. I couldn't go home alone. I couldn't return to my empty home, bloodstains soaked into the flagstones by the hearth, without something, someone to make it full of noise and laughter again. The very thought of of returning to silence was enough to make me run, run forever.

It is ridiculous. I expect this boy to bring me happiness, when all he will bring me is grief and mistrust. But I cannot let go of that thought, that ridiculous hope, this insane concept that by saving him, everything will magically be alright again.

A hand on my shoulder jolts me from my musings, and I look up into the face of the King, a worried frown upon his face. "Go back to your bedroll and get some rest. There is nothing you can do."

'Nothing you can do' The same words ring in my ears from a few days past and my heart sinks. "Will- will he…" I can't make myself say it, ask if he will die.

A gentle shrug of the shoulders is the response. "He has lost a lot of blood," the King took a breath of sorrow, "It is likely he will die. But if he survives the night, it is almost certain he will live, for his wound itself not life-threatening. We will know in the morning."

My heart jumps happily at the thin tendril of hope while my mind curses me. What have I done? What hell have I plunged us both into. I rise on unsteady legs and return to my bedroll, casting one last glance at the sleeping figure.

Once again I am unable to sleep, consumed with thoughts of my family. And the boy. Always the boy.

Once again I hear the King's words about him surviving the night and my stomach clenches in worry, leaving my mind swirling in distress and discomfort. How did I become so attached? I barely know him, yet the idea of his death saddens me as if he were my own.

What if there is some darker meaning in the King's words. What if he does not intend for him to last the night. Dark thoughts begin to cloud my mind and I restlessly throw off my blankets, stalking into the cool night air, my feet taking me wherever they wish as I entertain terrible thoughts.

What if the King was not healing him, but poisoning him in front of my very eyes. What if I had been sitting there just watching as his fate was sealed? Questions rip around my head torturing me over and over. It is the logical thing to do, to kill him in the night, to make it look like he died of his wounds, to fool me. And who wouldn't kill their enemy. Perhaps, even now, assassins crept to my bedroll, to slay the sympathiser.

My heart races and my breath comes faster and faster, in short gasps as I envisage scenes of ever greater horror and pain. And then a gust of wind hits me, stealing what little breath I had left and I realise where my feet have brought me.

I stand on the pinnacle of the white city and as the first rays of light spread over the plains guilt eats into my soul. Guilt that I have failed again.

I have only led the Haradrim boy to a more painful death at the hands of his enemies. I have not saved him, but condemned him. I know it in my heart. Perhaps even as I stand here he writhes in pain as poison burns through his body. Or maybe he is already dead, his body stiffening now there is no life to inhabit it.

The images settle in my mind and I cannot bear them.

It is one thing to kill a man in the heat of battle, where the only rule is kill or be killed. It is another thing entirely to have to decide one's fate. To hold the life of another in your hands is a terrible thing, for how do you make the right choice?

How can any man judge another, especially one they have never met. How can any man be entrusted with the power of deciding whether one lives or dies. How could any man live with himself, not be tormented by the possibility of making the wrong choice. Like I have. I was doomed from the start, doomed to lead that boy to his death, whether it was by inaction or action. I have failed, again. I wish this choice upon nobody.

I stand on the edge of the pinnacle, and everything becomes crystal clear. It is so much easier to make a decision when it is your own life that hangs in the balance. For in life you choose your own path, and suffer the consequences knowing that you, and only you, led you there. And in death, well in death you are no longer present to know what you have left behind. Life can be cruel and death is a permanent escape from its sharp claws.

And so, there, as the sun rises in the east, I make my choice. I choose freedom, and an end to my hell.

"He will live."

Three words. Three softly spoken words are all it takes to rekindle the fire in my heart. I have not failed, not this time! I turn to see the King, a true smile spreading across my face, happiness making my heart sing.

Perhaps, perhaps life is not so cruel after all.


End file.
